


Foreigner

by KuraNova



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: Alistair is Viscount Dragon's Peak, Alternate Universe - Regency, F/M, Regency Romance, bet you can't guess who, no that's not a joke, there is also some treachery afoot
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-01
Updated: 2016-11-01
Packaged: 2018-08-28 09:17:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,546
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8440021
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KuraNova/pseuds/KuraNova
Summary: A Regency Era AU
Alistair is formally recognized as Maric's son after a lifetime of estrangement, an act necessitated by his other son, Cailan's, infirmity. During the ball to celebrate the acquisition of this second son, Maric's ward is attacked by an assassin and both she and Alistair find themselves in the middle of a plot to overthrow nations.





	

_London, England, 1816_

Alistair cocked his head at his image in the mirror, eyes narrowing on the slight skew to the braids looped over his uniformed shoulder. With a jerk of his wrist, using more force than necessary, he righted the decoration and stood back from his reflection. Assessing himself once more, he found his appearance appropriate enough for his looming tangle with the upper echelons of society.

He had never had the opportunity to associate with the _ton_ \- not because he didn’t want to, but because he could not. There were several perfectly adequate reasons why. The most obvious of those reasons was that he was a bastard, of course. There was no sugar-coating that. Branded by the society that had begat the man responsible for his existence, he had gone on as an illegitimate burden to what some might consider his betters for the majority of his life. That was, of course, before his found his way into the military.

Obviously, fighting for King and country in a foreign land, he had not been invited to many dinner parties even if the circumstances of his birth wouldn’t have been taken into account. Now that he was home, and now that his wastrel of a father had deigned to legitimize Alistair after all these years, everything had changed. The man had abandoned him and his mother almost thirty years past, and not so much as a word had passed between them until several days ago when he’d paid a call to Alistair’s residence. They hadn’t even _recognized_ one other, sitting across from each other in Alistair’s study.

Alistair had been so surprised by the gesture that he hadn’t asked all of the pertinent questions. Perhaps the most important being _why_. He couldn’t fathom that his father, Maric, had suddenly decided to make Alistair the Viscount of Dragon’s Peak out of the goodness of his own heart. There was an ulterior motive there somewhere, but he had yet to uncover it.

Alistair forced his hands to stop nervously fidgeting over every aspect of his uniform and finally allowed himself down the narrow stairs of his home - townhome, really. He was not so well off that he could afford a large estate, even if he wanted one. Pensions from the military were livable, but only that. Though, he supposed, all that would be changing now that he was a viscount.

He sighed as he pulled open his front door and stepped onto the front escalier. Just one more aspect of his life that had been done against his will and was entirely out of his control. He’d probably have to hire more staff.

At that thought, he warily looked back over his shoulder to see his solitary housekeeper, Wynne, frowning mightily at him from the doorway. She thumped his valise on the top stair, then his overcoat, and then his hat, a scarf, and a pair of gloves atop all the rest. She eyed his immediate about-face critically as he approached the door, a perfect expression of contrition etched upon his features.

“You were wandering off again, I see,” she hummed reprovingly.

He chuckled, hoping his lopsided smile would win her over. Sometimes he was lucky. “I might have been daydreaming.” Alistair picked up his valise and threw his coat over his arm. “Thank you for looking out for me, as always.”

“And where would you be without me?” She sighed, then changed her stance. “How long will you be gone?”

“A fortnight. I left my direction for you on the desk.”

“At least there’s that. Be safe, and don’t go breaking your fool neck trying to escape the Duke’s eye.”

“You know me so well.” He grinned.

Her lips flattened as she tried to suppress a smile. “Of course. Off with you, now. The Earl isn’t a patient man.”

Following his housekeeper’s orders, Alistair thumbed the handle of his valise as he once again made way down the stairs and headed in the direction of a rather large and, in Alistair’s opinion, obnoxiously adorned carriage. He didn’t begrudge his uncle the finer things in life, of course. But did a vehicle really _need_ so much gold hammered into the seams that it was likely to blind a man in the right light?

Alistair sighed, and chastised himself for his ill temper. This situation was not his uncle’s fault. He would do well to be a little more patient and understanding. The man had raised him in lieu of both of his parents, after all. As he walked across the street to the waiting carriage, he noticed his horse, Caesar, was hitched to the back of the rear spring iron. It seemed while he was fussing over his appearance, Wynne had taken care of him yet again.

He was a few steps from the carriage door when it burst open.

“Alistair!” Teagan, his _other_ uncle, crowed, hopping from the coach to pull Alistair into a firm handshake, then further into a quick hug. “It has been an age since I’ve had the pleasure,” he continued. “How did the Orlesians treat you?”

Alistair smiled at his uncle’s enthusiasm. “The soldiers with not a little disdain, and the villagers with difference. It is good to see you as well, Teagan. I was not expecting you.”

“You two get inside before we become unfashionably late and the ton gives Alistair a set down for his tardiness,” Redcliffe grumbled from within the shaded interior of the carriage.

Both Alistair and Teagan exchanged a look before Alistair heaved his large frame into the coach and sat at elbows with Redcliffe.

“Don’t worry, nephew,” Teagan spoke as he sat down opposite them. “This sort of thing happens so rarely, no one will know what to think, least of all to worry about whether or not you arrived on time.”

“Well, at least we have that in common,” Alistair said

That earned a chuckle from Redcliffe, who then said, “I’m more concerned about Cailan’s reaction, if he doesn’t already know. He’s not been of a sound mind these past few months.”

Redcliffe was, of course, speaking of the reason Alistair thought most responsible for his impending legitimacy. Cailan, his half-brother, and his father’s first heir, was very unwell. While the official reason for his illness was not publically known, the Duke's son suffered from the result of his frequent dalliances, and while such behavior might be accepted socially, it had gone on for so long and at such a detriment to Cailan himself that the Duke of Ferelden had begun to grow concerned

There was no doubt that whatever illness Alistair’s brother had contracted, it called into question his ability to hold his future title - or that he might survive long enough to attain it.

Miles passed in silence as the carriage rumbled its way through the streets. Approaching the outskirts of town, the carriage passed a large, dark building with a high iron gate looming at the entrance of the grounds. To Alistair’s eye, the place looked as if it should have been condemned, with a sagging roof and weather-beaten siding. His stomach turned when he could just make out the grimy faces of at least a dozen children pressing against the gate’s bars, peering out into the street and following the carriage as it drove away.

Those poor souls were wrapped in clothes that fit poorly and did little to protect against the elements, and the thin, wiry frames of what should have been robust and lively youths seemed an indication of a lack of basic care. Would that Alistair could have afforded the price to taken them all in. Perhaps with his new position, he might be able to seriously consider the matter.

“They deserve better. I wonder that the Crown doesn’t step in and at least feed them properly. Those children aren’t more than skin and bones.” Alistair mused aloud, unaware he had done so until Eamon replied.

“If they’re so hungry, let them find their way to a workhouse where they can make some use of themselves. It’s not the Crown’s place to coddle the poor and destitute when they’ve none but themselves to blame for their state in the first place.” Eamon grunted.

 _That was precisely the Crown’s place!_ Alistair bit his tongue so hard he tasted blood, and was sure he might have sawed it clean in half if Teagan hadn’t taken up after Eamon’s comment.

“Surely you don’t mean that about every luckless child on the street, brother. Why, our Alistair would have faced the same fate through no fault of his own had you not so generously intervened.”

“You are right, of course, Teagan. At least Alistair has made something of himself under my care.”

Alistair remained silent through sheer force of will, something he hadn’t learned from Eamon, but from his commanding officer. It was wise, Rutherford had said, to keep one’s mouth shut when someone was simply unwilling to listen. Despite his anger, Alistair did respect his uncle and that, more than anything, forced him to mind his tongue.

Teagan spared a searching glance in Alistair’s direction, and though Alistair caught the movement in the window’s reflection, he didn’t acknowledge it. He found more comfort in watching the storefronts and gas lights blur past than he did in those sitting beside him. Not for the first time that evening, he wished he had remained on the continent indefinitely.

 

When the carriage arrived in front of the great manor house of the Duke of Ferelden, Alistair felt a bayonette of nervousness lance his belly. He’d been but an infant when he was presented at the manor to his father, who had taken no more interest in him than expected from someone of his station. He hadn’t been near Ferelden Park, or his father, since.

Maric had turned his mother off with no reassurances, but directed her to the estates of his brother in law, the Earl of Redcliffe. It was there that, despite nursing the bastard son of a wealthy, titled man who could have done more than provide for her, that his mother took up a servant’s work and saw to Alistair’s well-being. The Earl seemed to not mind Alistair underfoot and, though he was stern, had provided well for him.

It was a very cold winter when his mother had died. An illness of the lungs, the doctor had said. It was so long ago now that Alistair had trouble recalling the event in more detail. But he remembered sleeping next to his mother on the rough, straw mattress as he listened to her breathing became more labored and watery until it had stopped altogether.

He was so young that he hadn’t realized she was dead until morning, when the doctor came in to find him still clutching her in hopes of waking her up. That particular memory was the stuff of nightmares, and all events soon after had contributed to his immense need to get himself away from England, despite the service Redcliffe had given him.

Paying for a boy’s education after selling off the bed he’d slept in his whole life and restricting him to the stables didn’t necessarily engender gratefulness. But he was, in the end, grateful. It was Redcliffe’s desire to see him off his land that had cause Alistair to become enamored of the Dragoons and once he’d graduated, he had enlisted immediately.

When no one tried to stop him despite the imminent danger of war, he knew for certain that he was well and truly on his own.

With these dark thoughts of the past being dredged up so near the place of his birth, it was with great effort that Alistair attempted to brighten his own mood. He emerged from the carriage first, enjoying the bracing, wintry air and the clarity it afforded his mind as he waited for his companions to join him. His belongings would be taken into the manor without his assistance, he reminded himself. Lifting a finger to help the servants would merely affirm the opinion that he was not someone who belonged there. As Redcliffe had made a point of reminding him, he must play the part and do it well, or the nobility would pounce on his ineptitude like a pack of hounds atop a fox and his _father’s_ judgement would be called into question.

Couldn’t have that, could they?

As if on cue, Redcliffe said “Keep your head up, boy. Give them nothing.”

The crunch of pea gravel beneath his boots seemed a sort of death knell to Alistair. With each noisy step, he drew nearer to the doors of his father’s house and closer to the unhappy reality that he would need to grow comfortable in this glittering world. As a boy he’d envied his father, his life, and with genuine childish jealousy coveted the things his half-brother enjoyed that Alistair could only dream of. As an adult, he recognized the responsibility of it all, and the price that had to be paid to dwell in such comfort. He was unwilling to provide that expense, no matter how much it cost him elsewhere.

Alistair vowed that he would _never_ become his father.

The three of them approached the butler at the door, buffeted by an icy gale, and were ushered promptly inside. Alistair had unwisely (in Redcliffe’s estimation, anyway) begun to shed his own coat when a small army of footmen descended on them. In short order, Alistair was stripped, coiffed, and dusted, unsure if he thought the practice helpful or frighteningly intrusive. He settled on the latter because, he thought with a set of dark wryness about his mouth, he’d never been touched by so many hands outside of a battlefield infirmary.

Some might have thought the comparison between the war zone of the continent and his father’s ballroom to be rather unfair, but as Redcliffe and Teagan preceded him into the large, brightly lit space, he felt the likeness keenly. Champagne glasses clinked in bejeweled hands like striking bayonets while the din of voices rose up like the roar of soldiers calling before a charge. And, he noted with a shiver of unease, the eyes stared up at him like a corpse, fixed and unyielding - silently judging.

He shook the mental image as quickly as he could. Just as well, he thought, because he was soon greeted by his half brother. He’d never formally met Cailan, of course; they didn’t run in the same circles even as children, but he recognized their father in him all the same.

“Alistair! Brother!”

Alistair quickly looked around, wondering at the overt statement of familial relationship. It seemed out of place, really, even in light of the reason he was here and, considering the looks on the faces of those surrounding them, concessions were being made for Cailan’s boldness. It was no wonder, he thought as he took his half-brother’s hand in a firm shake. Cailan’s complexion was fevered, his hand uncommonly warm. When Alistair held his eyes in greeting, there was an absent, watery quality to them that he recognized for the illness it was.

Maric was right to be concerned. Cailan would need expert care if he were to survive to inherit the title.

Cailan enveloped Alistair in a one-armed embrace and turned him toward the head of the room where his father held a line to greet his guests. They strode to the very front, rudely cutting off a matronly-looking woman with a waddle for a neck and a face so wrinkled Alistair thought she might spend a good deal of time out in the sun. He found he liked her immediately. She scowled at him in spite of the apologetic smile he turned on her, and raised one thinning eyebrow in a manner similar to Wynne.

One Wynne was just about all he could take.

Dutifully, he turned his attention back to his brother, and then to his sire, who watched the exchange with an inclination of his head similar enough to Alistair’s own that he wondered at it. It was strange to see such a habitual response of his own repeated in front of his eyes by a man who looked so very like him. It was almost like staring into a mirror.

“Alistair,” Maric said, at once making his name sound like an accusation and an endearment.

Alistair had expected, well, _more_.

Acknowledging one’s bastard son with a perfectly legitimate heir to the entailment was just not a common thing to do, and as such Alistair had expected to at least _speak_ to his father once before he was put before all and sundry as the spare - more than just an ominous recitation of his name. He knew his own name, for God’s sake!

Alistair could have done without the whole thing, he reminded himself for the hundredth time. It was not as if he felt any different for having been recognized as one of the nobility. He was still the same man who had walked into the estate not above an hour ago. What _had_ changed was that shortly after he had been recognized, the mass of humanity gathered at his father’s home suddenly wanted a piece of him. Between mothers keen on saddling him with their daughters’ virtue and gentlemen wagering on how he had earned the distinctions adorning his uniform, Alistair could not quit the room fast enough. He didn’t run, but damned if he wasn’t tempted to.

Facing the glittering, crushing mass of the _ton_ was more frightening than charging Bonaparte’s front line.

Well away from the majority of party-goers, Alistair found himself wandering one of the large halls of the estate’s eastern side. The corridor was dimly lit this evening, though he suspected the light from the sconces on the wall would have - he laughed at himself - not _held a candle_ to the silvery blue light beaming onto the carpet from the full moon. Outside the rippled panes of glass, the pale orb made its ascent into the sky, and as it did so gave Alistair the first measure of peace he’d felt since his arrival. He’d always found solace staring up into the vastness of the night sky.

A flash of movement from the garden below caught his attention. The tail end of a shimmering gown disappeared behind a hedge. It appeared one of the guests had taken it into their mind to go out for some air. A fine idea, he thought as he glanced back up at the moon. He could get a much better view of the night sky out of doors, and the bite of the chilly spring air would keep most guests out of his way but for the few brave souls willing to risk a frosty backside for a liaison.

He set to finding the way out. Not keen on going back into the ballroom where the majority of the guests were being entertained, Alistair opted for a more discreet route. He’d become aware at a very young age that servants had stairwells and halls of their own that lay deep within the walls of most well-to-do homes. It allowed the maids and footmen access to rooms without being seen by titled company. A benefit when one didn’t want the help underfoot or in plain view. Better to have the neighbors believe that a house, by some manner of divine providence, lit its own lanterns, scrubbed its own floors, and dusted its own mantle pieces. Certainly the nobility would prefer the notion of fairy dust than to the reality - or actual magic, for that matter.

Alistair had become quite adept at seeing the worst of the upper crust of society, he chastised himself. Of course not all of them were unbearable, glittering harpies with talons sharp as fishing hooks to snare the nearest unsuspecting gentleman; nor all of them inattentive boors finding companionship in a bottle of brandy. He was trying to remove himself from his closed state of mind when he found the small seam in the wallpaper near the door to the library. He gave the hollow portion of the wall a swift knock, unsurprised when it popped soundlessly open on well-oiled hinges. Without a backward glance, he began into the narrow passage, tugging the door closed behind him with a frayed bit of rope gone soft with age.

In no time at all, he came across a servant who, while miffed that there was a _guest_ in the servant’s domain, was kind enough to recognize Alistair’s plight and direct him to the kitchen. The veritable maze of corridors would have been difficult to navigate otherwise, but not impossible. Trust those famous last words when they found his moldering bones shoved into a corner down here, he thought.

After a rather tight squeeze between himself and another servant, he’d finally come to the kitchen. Alistair practically fell from the doorway, catching the glare of the cook who eyed him like an angry crocodile. He flashed her an apologetic smile as she looked him up and down and noted his attire; the brass buttons glinting on his coat, the sheen of his oiled boots, and his clean shaven face. He’d disturbed the waters of her territory, and he’d better make a swift retreat lest she come snapping after him. Alistair had no doubts she’d drag him under and put him to work if he was set on mucking about in the help’s jurisdiction. Making a quick bow he practically scampered to the opposite door, feeling like an errant child, and let himself outside.

The blast of wintry wind brought a smile to his face as he closed the kitchen door behind him and leaned against it. He held his hands behind him, the rough wood of the door a welcome texture against his fingertips as his eyes took in the serene atmosphere of the estate’s gardens. The night was as still as it appeared from the window. The only sound that came to him over the wind in the trees was the solitary song of a thrush, likely nesting within the hedge maze. The entrance to the maze lay before him, and he recalled seeing one of the party guests disappear into the thick of it earlier. Absently, he hoped she had a shawl or a gentleman willing to share his jacket. The temperature was biting, more so than he’d anticipated.

Pushing away from the door, he began a slow circuit around the maze and tried not to think about his father, his new title, or how that was going to affect his career. He’d been part of the Dragoons for several years now, and if he was expected to give that up, he might very well consider fleeing to the continent. Of course, he mused, that would also keep him away from his duties.

Unlike many second sons, Alistair had joined the cavalry because of the promise of adventure, not to make a point to an absent father or to appease society. He genuinely enjoyed the routine and the expectation. He enjoyed the camaraderie he’d found in spite of the circumstances of his birth. For the very first time in his life, he had found like he belonged, that he was good for something, and that he had a role to play in the grand scheme of things. Even when the war threatened to take all of those things away from him, the sense of purpose he felt had made it worth it.

He had seen much, and learned quite a lot. Of course, he would never be the next Alexander Mackenzie or become the next Newton, but the process of discovery and learning both fascinated and intrigued him. His experiences had renewed his faith in people, in their goodness, and had allowed him to relate to others in a way he feared he would have never known had he remained his uncle’s ward.

Regardless of what his father thought he might be able to get Alistair to do for him, Alistair himself was certain he would place the Dragoons first. Family, he’d learned, was important, and it was not always those related to a person who became family. He would hazard that this entire ceremony tonight was a ploy anyway. Maric wanted something from him. He just wasn’t yet certain what that something might be.

A muffled screech pierced the wintry air of the night and cleaved through Alistair’s musings. Unsure of the sound at first, he tensed, waited, and cocked his head in the direction he thought the sound had come from. It was difficult to discern direction due to the wind rustling the foliage all around him, but another cry followed and this time he was certain it had come from within the maze. The sound could have merely been the unguarded reaction to a lover’s embrace or a friend’s teasing scare, but there was something about the nature of the sound itself that spoke to him of fear. That, and the distinct lack of response from anyone, not a laugh nor a murmur of words, served to raise his suspicions that something untoward was occurring right beneath his nose.

Alistair turned about on his heel and hurried back to the maze’s entrance. Once he’d reached the opening in the high hedges, he paused to listen once more. Hearing nothing as much as a crush of gravel underfoot, he decided to enter the maze despite not knowing the precise location of whomever had made that frightened noise. It was a stupid risk, but one he was prepared to take, given the potential consequences of minding his own business.

The twists and turns of the maze were numerous, and though Alistair tried to be silent in his approach, the pea gravel beneath his boots crunched and alerted whomever was in the maze to _his_ location. He thought, momentarily, to the foolishness of this intervention. What he’d heard _could_ have just been a pair of lovers using the maze for a bit of privacy before the gathering ended, and he’d happily shove his foot in his mouth and about face if that were the case. He just couldn’t shake the hollow ache in his gut that something was amiss. As it happened, he was right to trust his instincts on the matter, for when he arrived at the center of the maze, his eyes confirmed that something nefarious was indeed occurring out here in the dark.

Alistair’s tread had alerted the individuals at the opposite side of the central square of the hedge maze, and he found himself face to face with a cold porcelain mask that obscured his vision of the man beneath it. It was unmistakably French, an assassin, something he’d ponder on later when the flash of a blade wasn’t leveled at his throat. His gaze jumped behind the masked man to rest on the figure in a pale dress he’d seen entering the maze shortly before he’d made his way outside. The woman was straightening on her feet, a slight wobble indicative of some manner of injury, but he’d little time to examine that fact before the masked man held his full attention once more.

Strange that the intruder seemed to hesitate, brandishing his knife at Alistair before he began to back slowly away. The plumage around the stark white mask fluttered around his head with the movement, his wary step increasing the distance between them. He was intending to get away, he realized, and Alistair was going to let him. While he was sure he could have pursued the assassin and made a proper mess of things, Alistair was more concerned with getting the lady the help she needed. Besides, he was probably dim enough to assume that the assassin was after the lady, and hadn’t planned on being interrupted.

The wind picked up and rustled the hedge, and in a mere moment the thrush he’d heard earlier in the evening warbled loudly beside his head before taking flight in a snap of motion. Distracted, Alistair had to only take his eyes off the assassin a moment for him to simply vanish. Still wary, Alistair began to make his way toward the lady who met him midway through the clearing.

“Thank you,” she spoke with a bob of her head by way of a curtsey. “I thought for sure I would end up the unfortunate subject of a gothic novel.”

Alistair eyed her surreptitiously as he nodded in reply. Her dress was ruined, covered in dirt, and her hair had loosened itself from a style that had likely been pinned severely at the back of her neck. She appeared roughed up, but none the worse for wear.

“Fortunate your assassin has fled the area,” he replied, moving his gaze directly to her upturned heart-shaped face. “But I wonder. What does a Frenchman want with an American here in England?”

She smiled, a bit wryly. “Is my accent that obvious?”

Alistair wondered at a woman who could smile not moments after she had been attacked by a man with a knife. “You don’t sound like anyone around here.”

Her eyes smiled at that. “Some might call that a character flaw. Certainly my being an American accounts for my impropriety well enough.”

“The _ton_ are difficult to please, a bit like cats. I wouldn’t tax myself on their account to appear as anything other than what I am.” He paused. “You haven’t answered my question.”

“You’re an unusual one.” She nodded sharply, acknowledging his mild rebuke. “I’ve no idea what that assassin wanted with me.”

“You are also a terrible liar.”

The smile in her eyes vanished, and in its place there was a shrewd, calculating expression that served to pique his interest. “I don’t know you, sir, so I see no reason to explain myself to you on the matter.”

“Apologies,” Alistair gave a short bow. “Captain Alistair Theirin, at your service. Err, some might also call me Viscount Dragon’s Peak as of tonight,” he amended quietly.

The lady’s hazel-colored eyes widened fractionally before she stuttered out an apology. “I’m very sorry, my lord. I had no idea.”

Alistair made a face. “Please don’t say that. My name is Alistair, not _my lord_.”

She practically mimicked his expression. “I can’t very well go around calling you Alistair. People would talk. Mr. Dragon’s Peak?” she asked tentatively.

“Now that sounds bloody ridiculous,” he muttered, not missing the fact that she didn’t so much as flinch when he swore. “At least call me Captain Theirin.”

“Captain Theirin, then.” She hesitated. “My name is Catherine Cousland.”

“Miss or Mrs.?”

“Miss.” The faint smile was back. “From the Highever Plantation in Louisiana.”

He let out a low whistling sound. “You’re far from home.” Then he angled his inquiry in a different manner. “Why come all the way to dreary old England from your sunny little empire?”

Catherine’s brows knit together in a frown. “I thought you knew. Your father has granted me asylum for-”

“Lady Cousland!”

Catherine turned toward the voice while Alistair passed her a sidelong glance.

“You’re missed already?” he asked.

Catherine grumbled. “Cailan always seems to be missing me.”

“Not fond of his attentions? He seems to be popular.”

She rolled her eyes at him and smiled. “I forget you don’t know him as well as I do.”

Alistair cocked his head curiously. “You’re making him sound like a person to be avoided.”

“I’m sorry.” She ducked her head, immediately apologetic. “You’re brothers.”

“Hardly. I don’t know him at all, so I’m genuinely curious about your logic.”

“Catherine!” Cailan called again, his voice much closer now.

Alistair frowned, wondering at that.

Catherine didn’t seem to notice his half-brother’s proximity. “Cailan is the kind of man who does not take no for an answer, Captain. I try to spend as little time alone with him as possible.”

Alistair opened his mouth to reply, but at that moment Cailan stumbled into the clearing of the maze.

“Ah! There you are, my dear!” He drew back a step when he noticed Alistair standing beside Catherine.”And brother, too! I had thought you were inside with the rest of our guests.”

Alistair inclined his head, scrutinizing Cailan’s appearance. The man was drunk, disheveled and, if Catherine's words were to be believed, unfit to be alone with a vulnerable young lady. “I stepped outside to get some air,” he said. “A good thing, too. Miss Cousland met with an attacker in the maze.”

Cailan’s brows rose dramatically to his hairline. It was a mask of surprise that belonged on the boards of Drury Lane, and seemed rather disingenuous to Alistair’s mind.

“You were attacked?” he slurred, stepping forward to yank both of Catherine’s hands into his own. “My dear, I am _very_ sorry. Were that I here to save you from such an assault.”

“I managed just fine, thank you, milord,” she gritted out, rudely slipping her hands from Cailan’s though he didn’t seem to even notice the slight.

“French assassins,” Cailan scoffed. “How presumptuous to single out a guest on such an occasion.”

Alistair frowned. How did Cailan know the assassin was French?

He caught Catherine’s eye and it appeared, at least, that she had noticed that detail. Subtly, Alistair winged his arm out for her, and as he murmured an agreement at Cailan’s claim, felt Catherine’s hand slip over his forearm and grip him tight.

“Shall we get back to the house?” Cailan suggested. “Catherine should be seen to, to ensure she is well.”

“I believe _Miss Cousland_ would tell us if she were in any discomfort,” Alistair pressed, “but you have a point. It is getting colder, and wouldn’t be wise for us to linger outdoors dressed as we are.” Alistair started forward before Cailan could make another grab for Catherine’s hands and preceded the way out of the maze.

Catherine kept pace easily with Alistair even in her large dress, which the new viscount thought odd until he noticed a tear at the hem of her skirt. He was about to suggest taking the servant’s entrance when a woman emerged onto the terrace, took one look at Catherine, and fainted dead away. Of course, such a display caught the attention of every person nearest the open doors. The was an audible gasp from several of the ladies, the gentlemen suspiciously silent.

He supposed he was asking for too much to think sneaking in with Catherine’s reputation intact was viable.

“Miss Cousland!” Another gasp, this time from a pretty blonde who did not shrink from the sight of Catherine’s tattered dress, but hurried toward her.

Immediately the women wedged herself between Catherine and Alistair, casting a frigid look over her shoulder at him before whisking Catherine through the throng and into the house. The very moment the two women had disappeared the whispers began. They insinuated he had taken advantage of Maric’s guest. They called him a cad, and even went so far as suppose that the sudden elevation to a title from peasantry had revealed Alistair’s real likeness.

Alistair was stuck between the wisdom of keeping silent and the visceral need to defend himself. Surely Cailan’s word would silence the flagrant suppositions being cast in his direction. But when he looked back to ask for his brother’s help, Cailan was gone.

  


“What did you think you were doing?”

Alistair stood firm beneath the force of his father’s anger. He didn’t know what particulars had reached Maric’s ears in such a short time between Catherine’s attack and the present, but he was not about to cower. He’d done nothing wrong and, so help him, if Maric was ready to take the word of a silly gossip monger over that of Alistair's own, then he was prepared to send the whole of the ton into a paroxysm of shock when he walked out of the manor and traveled back home.

“I assisted Miss Cousland to the door,” Alistair said. “I promise that was all.”

He caught the flash of Cailan’s glass of brandy out of the corner of his eye. His brother had conveniently reappeared in his father’s study shortly after Alistair had been summoned. Instantly, Alistair had been on his guard, accused by Maric of taking liberties with Miss Cousland that Cailan, despite knowing the truth, did nothing to refute.

“Then why was her dress in such disarray? Her hands were bloodied and she was bruised, Alistair. Explain this to me.”

Alistair swallowed a tired sigh. “I’ve told you, father, that Miss Cousland told me she had been attacked by someone. I also saw the assailant, and scared him off. By the time I arrived to the lady’s aid she had already been injured. When I asked after her health, she replied that she was well.”

“I believe Alistair, father. I met both he and Catherine in the maze,” Cailan said. “Everything seemed in order, though I cannot say the same for poor Catherine’s reputation.”

Alistair thought Cailan had quite the nerve, speaking about _poor_ Catherine as if the woman suffered from consumption instead of a simple misunderstanding.

Cailan waved regally, as if the spectre of Catherine’s reputation was easily removed from his mind. “I think you know what must be done here, father.  The family honor demands it.”

Alistair held back a humorless snort. All he had seen of the family honor was a diseased sycophant getting drunk in an armchair and a man who had allowed his son to be raised by another, a hair's breadth from poverty, only to elevate that same son's social status and acknowledge him when the fancy struck.

Maric sighed heavily, the furious wind leaving his sails. “You're right, my boy. Honor demands it. Alistair, you are to marry Catherine Cousland.”

Alistair blinked. _Marry her?_

“I can't marry her!”

Maric frowned. “You can, and you will, Alistair. Even if what you say is true, and her condition was not the result of any untoward behavior on your part, do you really think all of those people in the ballroom will take your word as truth?” He shook his head a moment, almost seeming to regret his demands. “I heard what they were saying, son. You might be just gaining your footing in this world, but you are still playing by society’s rules. If you have any decent feelings toward Lady Cousland at all, you will wed her.”

Alistair opened and closed his mouth several times in an attempt to answer, but Maric’s last words - his entreaty - to Alistair's softer emotions pulled him up short. He was on the verge of sorting out his response when Cailan spoke.

“I can understand my little brother’s hesitation, of course. What with his time in the military, he likely hasn't had the opportunity to really know a women, if you comprehend my meaning. Allow me to marry her instead.”

For the second time that evening, Alistair was shocked at just how openly vicious Cailan could be. His disposition was so at odds with how he had received Alistair earlier that evening. To Alistair, who'd known the man only a handful of hours, the turnabout was incredibly disconcerting.

“Nonsense, Cailan. Your intervention will not stem the gossip surrounding Lady Cousland,” Maric spoke gruffly. He muttered something under his breath that Alistair couldn't quite make out.

Cailan pressed on. “Surely you can see the benefit of my union with Catherine. Besides, if we are to save the woman from ruin, she may as well think herself in love her dear husband.”

Maric cleared his throat. “I do not think you are quite so well-liked as you believe, Cailan.” He then turned his gaze on Alistair once more, considering. “Marry her or she is ruined.”

“I said I would marry her!” Cailan rose from his chair unsteadily. “I deserve-!”

“You deserve a birching for reaching beyond yourself. Now sit down!” Maric growled. “Alistair, your answer?”

Cailan slumped back into his armchair.

Alistair crossed his arms over his chest, having had enough of this silly, roundabout, disturbing conversation. “I will give it after Miss Cousland herself is called here. She has a right to be party to the decision.”

“Fair enough,” Maric replied. “I will send for her.”

Cailan shot to his feet again, this time smashing his glass against the stone apron of the fireplace. “This is ridiculous!” he spat as he stormed out of the study.

When he was gone, Maric sighed and said something about dealing with spoiled children. Alistair could not find it in himself to feel sorry for him.

A short while later Miss Cousland made her way through the doors of the study dressed in a new gown and with little evidence of her ordeal in the garden but for a few noticeable scraps at her neck and hands. She seemed to realize why she was being summoned to Maric, though, seeing her jaw set stubbornly as she greeted them, Alistair surmised that she wasn’t very happy about it. They were of like mind, then.

Anticipating his father, Alistair began to gently lay out the situation they faced, and the young lady’s options. He surprised himself when he told her that he would bear her no ill will if they were to get married. His father’s appeal to think about Catherine’s needs before his own had resonated with him, and he discovered in a very short time that he was prepared to sacrifice certain freedoms should her benefit outweigh any of his objections. He expected her to grow angry and to curse at him or at Maric for their high-handedness in thinking to determine the course of her future.

Catherine seemed to genuinely consider all of her options. Her thoughtful expression an object of much scrutiny by Alistair, whose fate was as much tied to her decision as the converse. Eventually her eyes rose from the carpet to meet Maric’s.

“The easiest way to remedy all of this silliness would be to just go through with it?” she asked.

Maric scratched his chin, pretending to think it over when he’d made the decision long ago. “Yes,” he said. “If you don’t get married to Alistair, things will be much harder for you. You would still be under my protection, of course, but there is only so much I can do where gossip is concerned.”

“What does it matter to me?” Catherine asked. “I have no family to shame. My fortune is my own.”

Maric grimaced. “And there is the wrong of it, my lady. Your fortune is only available to you upon your marriage or thirtieth year. If you do not take the present opportunity, the damage to your reputation will greatly damage your marriage prospects. Should you receive no proposal by the time you are wealthy enough to attract a husband, you will be beyond an adequate age to produce any heirs. However, should you marry Alistair, you will receive your inheritance immediately and start a family if you wish. Or you could both hold separate homes and have nothing to do with one another.”

Catherine hummed thoughtfully. “I could just as easily manage that on my own on my thirtieth birthday.”

Alistair nodded. “You could. It is your decision. I will not force your choice one way or the other.”

Miss Cousland seemed surprised by that, but made no comment to Alistair’s neutrality on the subject. She was thankful for the silence to contemplate the sketch of her future. After hours of deliberation and hushed conversation, she finally made her decision.

  


The wedding date was set for later that winter around Christmas time. The length of the engagement, as Alistair has learned, was as carefully chosen as the guest list. There should be enough time, Maric had informed him - though why he was so well versed on such matters, Alistair hadn’t the foggiest - to ensure that no one would suspect Catherine was with child. Not that any person’s impending motherhood was anyone else’s business, Alistair thought. Additionally, Catherine had informed him, she would need at _least_ two months to acquire a dress, plan a reception, and do things _properly_.

Alistair thought it best to stay out of the way, hence the reason he had removed himself to his room to review what correspondence had found him at Ferelden Park. Most of the letters were receipts and account balances from the various businesses Wynne frequented to keep his home in order. One letter was from Wynne herself, reminding him to mind himself. There was one bit of paper that was different from the rest. It was a heavy weight, and felt beneath his fingers like vellum. He remembered receiving orders on such fine paper from officers far above him in rank. Far enough to be commanding armies from offices instead of tents. Curiosity piqued, he immediately broke the seal and began to read.

 _Dear Viscount Dragon’s Peak_ , it began. Alistair looked skyward. His title sounded bloody ridiculous.

 

_Dear Viscount Dragon’s Peak,_

 

_A matter of importance requires your attention at the War Office. You will be received by the Regimental Sergeant Major, 1st Royal Dragoons, upon your arrival by the fifteenth of this month. Discretion is requested upon receipt of this letter._

 

_Yours sincerely,_

_Regimental Sergeant Major, 1st Royal Dragoons, Cullen Rutherford_

  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Hello everyone and welcome to my new story! It's been a long time coming, and while I feel confident that I have adopted the Regency romance tone, I may occasionally be historically inconsistent as I try to merge Regency England to the Thedas we all know and love. Please bear with me as I realize this crazy dream of mine! Thank you so much for your readership!
> 
> Also a MIGHTY thank you to bushviper for being the 11th hour beta for this fic. Gurl, you are awesome!


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